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The Tap

You ever talk about your bathroom dreams?

No?

Yeah. Me either.

Except this morning. And only after my husband confessed his. Which was after I said, “sooooo….I woke up to you snort-laughing in your sleep last night. What gives?” After which he tipped his head to the left and drummed his fingers on his lips a moment. Which apparently was enough to pull up the memory and give it new life.

“I had to go to the bathroom,” he said. “A lot. And the lines were just LONG. Three urinals. And at least twelve people in each line.”

Husband shakes his head. I imagine three snaky lines of men, scrolling on their smartphones, all pretending to mind their own business.

“When it was my turn, though,” husbands says, “nothin’. Couldn’t go. Not even a drop. But the other lines…those guys were going. Which is when the gentleman behind me taps me on the shoulder.”

Husband howls. I see a man, belt cinched, polo shirt, checking his watch for the sixth time.

“He taps me,” husband says again.” Like with his finger. I turn. He’s old, bald. And the two us look down at my problem, which I haven’t zipped up yet, nor lost a drop from…”

I’m trying not to get a visual. Husband is smacking the table, wiping his eyes with a crumpled paper towel, and saying again with his fingers miming, “he tapped me.”

Only I realize, as husband sucks all the air out of the room, that this is it. Ain’t no punchline.

And at the rate we’re losing oxygen…heh…we don’t need one.

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